Shutdown
by PantyDragon
Summary: "What if I died tomorrow?" Sherlock turned back to the computer with a sigh. "I hardly see how my opinion matters. My belief or disbelief in your soul certainly won't determine whether or not it exists." Not a character death, just some introspection.


AN: Insomnia!fic for you all. Enjoy, and hope that this noctournal affliction of mine keeps up, because it will likely continue to provide you with fanfiction.

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><p>"What if I died tomorrow?"<p>

The question had come as though by its own will, from nothing, from the faintest whisper of a passing thought. It had come out of the blue, out of the oppressive gray sky that hung over London that late autumn morning. It had come from the lips of John Watson as he lay, languid and unmoving on the sofa, his knees bent over one armrest, his head cradled on the centre cushion, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he made love to his overwhelming boredom.

He had asked, his tone flat: "What if I died tomorrow?"

The only answer he received was the steady and uninterrupted clicking of Sherlock's keyboard from his desk as he replied (in the negative) to a request of his presence in Luxembourg, where a dignitary had found himself unable to rid himself of a few sticky allegations. He had heard, but had not paused.

"Sherlock?" John prompted, his head turning slightly toward his companion. "What do you think? What would you do?"

The clicking hardly slowed, and Sherlock's eyes had not left the screen as he retorted. "You're perfectly healthy, don't trouble me with the hypothetical."

"I'm just wondering," he insisted, "Humour me. What would you do? Would you…visit my grave or…I dunno, say a few words at my funeral, or…pray for my soul or anything?"

At that, Sherlock stopped typing and turned to regard John with a sidelong stare. "Must we?"

"Humour me." He repeated.

"You're asking," Sherlock expounded with a look very much like exasperation, "not what I would do physically, you're asking if I believe in some form of an afterlife, if I believe in a soul, is that it?"

"Well…" John paused, "I guess, sort of. Yeah, why not, what do you think?"

Sherlock turned back to the computer with a sigh. "I hardly see how my opinion matters. My belief or disbelief in your soul certainly won't determine whether or not it exists."

"I know that, I just...want to hear what you think about it."

"I don't."

"You must have thought about it at some point. With all the insane levels of danger you put yourself in; it must have crossed your mind at least once."

"I'm not sure you'll like my opinion on the matter."

"Just tell me. It's hypothetical, like you said."

Sherlock dragged himself rather disparagingly from his chair and crossed the room, dropping onto the sofa opposite John with a languorous exhale, his own legs thrown over the other armrest, their heads side by side, nearly touching, as they both regarded the ceiling blankly.

"You're a medical man," Sherlock probed.

"Yes."

"You've seen men die."

John nodded.

"You've seen cadavers laid out on exam tables."

John made a small noise of affirmation.

"And you know," he continued, his voice a low, dispassionate thrum "the mechanics of it all. You understand how the body works: calories in, calories out, matter converted into what the body needs to function. Energy is converted to electricity; the synapses of the brain, firing up of the neurons, impulses sent to nerves, all resulting in function, movement, animation." His arm arced up and his extended index finger lowered to rest on John's forehead, between his eyebrows. "You know how so many flashing bulbs, so many electrical signals combine to form memories, quirks, ideas, personality, a distinct consciousness. You understand the chemical reactions that make it possible and the function of every bit of flesh in a body, how it all adds up to support and to be operated by the brain. You know that everything we humans are, everything we do, is a function of the electrical activity in our brain, and can be documented, categorized, analyzed as such."

"Yes."

"And you know that when a body breaks down, when a human dies, that the brain shuts off. All activity stops. The body becomes just a piece of meat on a slab, so many bits of flesh and bone, the brain just a fatty, bloody lump of grey matter, an amalgamation of cells. No different – no heavier or lighter or bigger or smaller - than it was when alive, except that now it is inanimate."

"Yes."

Sherlock paused for a moment. "Tell me, John, do you mourn a computer when it crashes? When its parts cease to function, when all its information is wiped clean, do you imagine that something of your computer has gone to a computer heaven or a computer hell or a computer purgatory? Do you suppose that your computer's soul might be reincarnated in a new computer? For all its complex functions, would you venture to imagine that a computer is somehow more than simply the sum of its parts: its bits of plastic and silicon and glass and metal?"

John's chest grew tight as he replied. "No."

Sherlock's other hand reached over his shoulder and he now rested both his index and middle fingers gently on either of John's temples, feeling the pulse of blood that fed oxygen to his brain. "Knowing this," he continued, "you then ask if_ I_ would assume that a human is anything other than a complex, organic computer. You ask if I would believe that some part of _you_ still existed somewhere, beyond the realm of my understanding. You ask if my thoughts of you would indicate anything other than a memory. You ask _me_, John, if I would mourn you when you died?"

John nodded.

Sherlock's eyes fell closed, and so deafening was the beating of his heart that John was sure he could hear the pulse in Sherlock's throat as the silence stretched between them like the unfurling of a spool of razor wire.

"Yes," he breathed, his voice shaking, "every day, every waking moment. I would bow my head at your funeral, I would leave tokens on your grave. I would dream of you. I would speak aloud to you." The hands that pressed to either side of John's head were trembling slightly, "because whatever John Watson is, it is not a thing that can be contained in a lump of flesh. Whatever John Watson is, it is not a thing that dies."

The sound of their breathing was in perfect tandem, as though they had become a single being, and John reached up to tangle his fingers in Sherlock's hair.

"Never leave." He murmured.

"And you." Sherlock replied.

"I won't."

"Good."

Rain pattered on the window and Sherlock smiled slightly as he felt John's stillness beside him.

Soul or no, he would fight death itself if it meant being parted from John Watson.


End file.
